It's All MY Fault
by bettytheyeti
Summary: John has a mental breakdown after Sherlock's return, and regresses mentally. He acts as a toddler, and Sherlock cares for him.


It had been three years since Sherlock had last seen John. He'd made sure to have Mycroft periodically check up on John, and knew the man was doing fine without it, but he wasn't doing so well without his blogger. He hated to admit it, but it seemed that John had grown on him. He missed John dearly, and it was time to come home. He couldn't wait to see John again.

After Sherlock's death, John's PTSD got worse. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, _ couldn't live. _He blamed himself for Sherlock's death, and it replayed constantly in his mind. When he did manage to fall asleep, he had terrible nightmares, and would wake up to an empty flat, and wet bedsheets. Even after three years, he still wasn't getting any better.

Even though no one really knew what was going on, they tried to help John as best as they could. Mrs. Hudson cooked for him, cleaned the flat, and tried to keep him company, but after being rejected for so long, she stopped. Lestrade was often too busy to stop by, but on rare occasions, he did. He tried to reason with John, to get him to see that he wasn't to blame, but John would have none of it. He was irritable most of the time, and Lestrade would often end up talking to himself as John exited the flat in a rush. John didn't let anyone help. He didn't want the help. He didn't _deserve_ to be helped.

Mycroft was a different story. He made sure to pay for anything John needed. He would stop by at least once a day, and would often sit beside John, not muttering a single word, just watching John. He'd institutionalized John a few times, and John only grew to resent him more and more. Three years had passed, and Mycroft still watched over him. John didn't understand why. How could Mycroft save the man that had killed his little brother? At this point, he didn't care, he just wanted to die. The guilt had completely destroyed him. There was nothing but anger and pain within him now. He never smiled and he rarely did anything. He would just stay in bed, doing nothing. He'd died along with Sherlock that gloomy day, and what was left was just his body. He was dead inside.

He couldn't bring himself to move out of the flat, because a tiny part of him still clung to the hope that Sherlock would one day come back. That tiny glimmer of hope died a little more each day, but it was the only reason he was still alive.

Today was the third anniversary of Sherlock's death, and John did not want to be alive. He was going to sleep through the day, because it was too unbearable to face. Three years ago, he'd been so happy, and within a few minutes, his only source of happiness was unfairly snatched from him.

He didn't want to think right now, didn't want to exist, so he took a few sleeping pills, and let himself drift off, the darkness consuming him once again.

Sherlock paid the cabby and smiled as he saw his flat for the first time in years. 221b, or as he liked to call it, _home. _He knew John would be upset once he saw that Sherlock was alive, but he also knew that John had a kind heart, and would forgive him once he heard the reason for Sherlock's fake death.

Sherlock still had his key, and used it to walk in. As much as he wanted to see Mrs. Hudson, he longed to see John, so he headed straight to his flat.

The first thing that hit him once he entered the flat was the strong smell of dust. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust, but once they did, he was shocked to see that everything was covered in a thin layer of dust. There was a mess, with trash covering the floor, piles of clothes everywhere, and a few rotten food items on the table. The place looked and smelled horrible. He thought Mycroft was exaggerating when he told Sherlock that John just didn't care anymore.

He figured he'd come back to clean up after he had a little chat with John. Rather than call out to John, Sherlock made his way to John's bedroom. The place was worse than the living room, and smelled peculiar. Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on it, but could care less. Where was John?

He checked his bedroom next, and found John curled up on his bed, hugging the only pillow Sherlock ever used. John looked terrible. He was thinner than ever, his skin looked sickly, and his hair was wild. Sherlock could smell alcohol on John's breath, and knew the man would be out cold for a while. It gave him time to clean up the flat a bit, and that is what he did, but not before sitting on the bed next to John and touching John's hand. John jumped, and muttered something before settling back down again. Sherlock left the room quietly, surprised that the room was as spotless as he'd left it all those years ago.

Sherlock was never very good at cleaning, but he'd gotten better at it after living on his own for three years. With no Mrs. Hudson or John around, he'd learned how to clean up after himself. It took him three hours to clean the kitchen and living room, and by the end of it, he was exhausted. The place was spotless, and smelled better since Sherlock had cleaned with bleach, but it still didn't feel quite right.

Instead of cleaning John's room next, he went down to see Mrs. Hudson. At first, she'd passed out, and couldn't believe her eyes, but after a while, she let Sherlock explain himself, and she sympathized with him. It was nice, catching up with Mrs. Hudson, and she even gave him a few tips on how to make the flat smell better again. Sherlock was dying to talk to John though, so he didn't stay long.

John didn't sleep nearly as long as he wanted to. He woke up as the sun was setting, and realized the day still hadn't ended. He would have to endure being awake for the last part of this horrid day.

His body was sticky with sweat. He'd been having another nightmare, the one where the event surrounding Sherlock's death were relived in vivid detail. He looked down at his lap, hoping he hadn't, not on Sherlock's bed, the last reminder of what Sherlock once smelled like. He did. He closed his eyes in anger, and pulled on his hair. He hated himself more at that moment than he had the moment Sherlock jumped to his death.

He began hyperventilating, pulling out chunks of his hair. "You're so fucking stupid John. Why are you such a big baby? Why don't you just die already?"

He didn't scream, even though he wanted to. He didn't exactly whisper, either. He just spoke out loud, his voice raspy, hardly used in the past few months. He began slamming his head against the bed's headboard, each time slamming his head harder than the last.

He heard someone coming. He didn't care. It was probably Mycroft, and he would end up at the psychiatric ward again, but he just did not give a flying fuck anymore.

He continued hitting his head, his vision getting blurry. He didn't know if it was the tears, or he was losing consciousness, but he couldn't help and think that the figure standing before him was Sherlock.

"John, stop!" the figure ordered, grabbing John's arm.

Could it be? No, it wasn't possible. He'd seen Sherlock die. He had finally lost his fucking mind. At least he got Sherlock back, even if he wasn't real. Maybe if he hit his head harder, he would die and join Sherlock.

He slammed his head as hard as he could against the headboard, and felt the hot, sticky liquid run down his forehead. He felt dizzy, and couldn't see straight. He smiled for the first time in months. He would finally join Sherlock.

"John, you idiot," Sherlock whispered, pulling John into his lap. He pressed a towel against John's head, to stop the bleeding. He could easily stitch this up, he'd learned a thing or two while he lived undercover, but he didn't want to leave John alone. He knew what he could do, and as much as it killed him to leave John, he quickly ran into the kitchen, hoping that they had eggs.

"No!" John screamed, clinging to Sherlock. Sherlock had made sure to change his trousers and discard the bed sheets to avoid embarrassing John.

"John, you must go to a hospital," Mycroft explained calmly. "Do you want to end up at the psych ward again?"

"No…" John was sobbing and clinging to Sherlock. Sherlock could not get over the fact that John was acting like a toddler. Were those three years without him truly that bad for John?

John spoke again, his voice hoarse and weak. "Please, Sherlock… please…"

Sherlock had no idea what John wanted, but it was clear that he didn't want to go to the hospital, and he also didn't want to let go of Sherlock. It made Sherlock feel strange, having John on his lap, a death grip around Sherlock's shoulders, his frail body trembling.

"Can't you get a doctor to come here and stitch him up? He obviously doesn't want to go."

"What he needs is a shrink," Mycroft muttered, shaking his head. "He's acting like a child."

"Mycroft, just do it. I'll deal with this."

Mycroft sighed and went outside to make a phone call. Sherlock smiled, then turned his attention to John.

"John, breathe, okay? Deep breath in, deep breath out. Good. You can stop crying, you're not going anywhere, and neither am I, so relax."

John looked at him, his beautiful blue eyes covered in tears. His lower lip was shaking, and at that moment, Sherlock realized he was looking into the eyes of a child. He was the worst person to be put in this situation, as he wasn't the type to comfort people. This was John, though, and that changed things. He loved John, and knew he would do anything to make sure John was okay.

It was time to do some research.

_Infantilism. _That was the term Sherlock came across. It made sense, really. It said that often, people regressed when there was too much stress. They went back to a time when they felt secure, and for John, that must have been toddlerhood. Sherlock managed to get more information from a psychiatrist, and now knew what he must do. _He must assume the role of John's caretaker until John felt secure enough to return to normal. _He wasn't too keen to do this, but how could he say no to that face?

John was extremely clingy. Even when the doctor was stitching him up, he refused to let go of Sherlock, and screamed bloody murder when they tried to pry him from Sherlock.

"John, he needs to give you a checkup. I'm going to stay right here' I won't move at all, but you need to sit there, by yourself."

John looked at him, pain behind his eyes. His lip began to tremble again, and Sherlock knew it was no use trying to reason with him.

"Okay, okay. You can stay right here, you big baby. Sit still for the doctor, and do as he says, otherwise you'll have to sit alone."

John gave a little nod, and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder, rubbing his eye. Right when he'd calmed down, the doctor decided to stitch his head up, and John lost it. He sat absolutely still, but the sound that came out of his mouth was chilling. He was sobbing loudly, the kind of sound a young child makes. Sherlock felt a pang in his chest. He didn't know why, but he felt intense anger towards the doctor. He was obviously just doing his job, but he was hurting John, and Sherlock just wanted to wrap his arms around John and protect him from the world.

Once the doctor finished, Sherlock held John tightly against his chest, trying to soothe him. "I know. It hurts. Poor John." He rocked John back and forth. It all came naturally to him, and that frightened him. He wasn't supposed to be loving and caring. He was supposed to be the big bad Sherlock Holmes.

"So what are we going to do about John?" Mycroft asked, frowning at the sleeping figure in Sherlock's arms.

"I'm going to take care of him, and you are going to buy me the stuff I need." Sherlock replied simply.

"Why are you just accepting this?" Mycroft wondered.

"I've read why this happens. I've read how this can help him. I'm to blame for all this, so I'm going to fix it. No matter how long it takes, I will stick by John, and care for him as if he were my own son."

"I just find this a little strange. How did he go from suicidal drunk to a toddler within seconds?"

"I don't know Mycroft. Maybe one day we can ask him, but for now, he is a child, and will be treated as such. I'm going to need a lot of baby supplies."

"What do you know about caring for babies?"

"I'll figure it out. Can you bring me a blanket? We're sleeping here tonight, apparently."

It was 3 am when Sherlock woke up to a wet crotch and a crying child. He should have seen this coming.

He sat up with John in his arms and held the child protectively, running his hand through John's hair. "Shh, it's okay John. It was only a nightmare, you're okay, I've got you."

John looked up at him again, then down at his wet trousers, and cried harder. Sherlock could tell that John felt ashamed, but he knew that John had little to no control of his bladder, he was a child, or at least had the mentality of one.

"It's okay. We can just change out of our wet trousers. Who needs trousers anyways?" He smiled at John and stood up. John threw himself against Sherlock's back, at this point sobbing. He was being extremely clingy. Sherlock wondered if he could carry a full-grown man, but he guessed he would find out soon.

Surprisingly, John was as light as a feather. Sherlock was relieved. He couldn't imagine John's reaction is he wasn't able to be in Sherlock's arms 24/7. Changing both of their trousers proved extremely difficult, especially since John insisted on holding on to Sherlock like his life depended on it. Sherlock managed it though, and decided he couldn't afford to let this incident recur.

I need those supplies right now –SH

Sherlock, can't this wait until morning? It's four am! –MH

No. I need them ASAP. John had a little accident –SH

Someone will deliver the necessary items shortly –MH

Sherlock was glad Mycroft was cooperating, but he needed to move fast. John was wide awake, and it seemed he had no intention of going back to sleep. Sherlock knew he would have a cranky John if he didn't get at least nine hours of sleep. But he didn't know how to get him to fall asleep.

"John," Sherlock whispered softly, "It's time to sleep."

John whined and started to cry.

Sherlock mentally kicked himself. He didn't know why John was crying, but knew it had something to do with him not wanting to go back to sleep.

"Okay, we don't have to go to sleep. We can just rest here and watch some telly, how does that sound?"

John buried his face against Sherlock's face but continued to cry. Sherlock sighed and rubbed John's back soothingly. It seemed as if John would never calm down.

Suddenly, a man entered the flat, carrying some bags. It was one of Mycroft's men, here to save the day.

"Oh thank goodness. Bring the bags over here."

The man obediently placed the bags next to Sherlock's feet.

"Are these all the bags? Did you buy everything on the list I sent my idiot of a brother?"

The man nodded.

"Good. You may leave."

Without hesitation, the man left.

Sherlock was now left with a crying child. A part of him wanted to scream for the man to come back and help him, but his pride got in the way. Instead, he decided to use the internet to find a solution to this little problem.

Half an hour later and John's cries had turned into pathetic little whimpers. Sherlock felt like a failure for not being able to soothe the child.

"What do you want John? Does something hurt?" He pressed his face against John's hair.

John shook his head, whimpering softly.

"Can you tell me what you need?"

John opened his mouth to speak, but a sob came out instead.

"It's okay. Dumb Sherlock will figure it out eventually.

Once he said that, he finally got an idea of someone who might be able to help- _Harry. _Of course! How stupid could he have been? Harry would probably remember toddler John and might know what he needed.

He picked up his phone to call her. She answered after seven rings.

"H'lo?"

"Harry, I have a question for you."

"Sherlock? It's three in the mornin' for god's sakes!"

"Yes, yes and I do apologize but this is important. Was John attached to a particular item as a child?"

"Ya. He use ter suck on a binky 'til he was 'lmost a teenager. Why do ye ask?"

"No reason. Bye Harry."

"Sherlo-"

Sherlock hung up. That's what John needed- a binky! To think that this could have been solved a while back.

"Poor John just wants binky, huh?" Sherlock reached into the bag and pulled out a pack containing three binkies. He opened it up and grabbed the first binky. He kissed John's forehead and gently forced the binky into John's mouth. The crying ceased instantly.

Sherlock watched as John sucked on the binky, clumsily at first, then slowly getting into a rhythm. He saw John's eyes drooping, and knew he was falling asleep again. He was debating on how to go about putting a nappy on John when he finally just decided to place John down on the bed and do it quickly.

As soon as John touched the bed, his eyes opened widely, the binky fell out of his mouth, and he began to sob violently.

"No!" He desperately reached out for Sherlock, his expression full of panic.

Sherlock tried to get John to lie down, but he would have none of it. He clung to Sherlock's hands, his eyes begging Sherlock to hold him. It pained Sherlock to see John like this, but he needed to put a nappy on him.

"John, shhh, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just going to put a nappy on you so we don't have to keep changing trousers."

John screamed and launched himself into Sherlock's arms, his whole body trembling weakly. It killed Sherlock to see John like this. It was ridiculous, really. His flatmate was acting like a child, screaming because Sherlock wouldn't hold him, and it was hurting Sherlock to hear John's weak cries. He was a grown man, but deep down, Sherlock knew John was just a baby, _his _baby, and he'd rather have wet trousers every day than to see his baby like this.

"There, there, I've got you." Sherlock whispered into John's ear as he rocked John back and forth and placed the binky back in his mouth. John's cries slowly died out, and Sherlock watched as the binky worked its magic and John finally fell asleep.

It was 4:30 am when he finally got John back to sleep. He knew he would probably wake up to a wet mess, but he didn't dare risk putting John down again. This was so draining. The Great Sherlock Holmes was exhausted after only a few hours with his new baby. This was going to be a long day.

John was staring at Sherlock, quietly sucking on his binky. Sherlock opened his eyes to find John's face resting against his own. He could hear the sound of John sucking on the binky, and it was strangely comforting.

Surprisingly, there was no accident to clean up. John was fairly calm, compared to yesterday. He still clung to Sherlock, but he seemed more at ease. Sherlock wondered why.

"Time for breakfast John."

Sherlock wondered what he should feed John. Probably mushed up fruit, but he didn't know if John would like that.

John rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock carried him into the kitchen. The binky was keeping John quiet. Sherlock decided that he liked the binky.

He prepared some oatmeal for John. John was so thin that Sherlock felt it was his duty to help John regain some weight. He scooped some oatmeal into the spoon and brought it to John's mouth, but John continued to suck on his binky.

"John, it's time to eat. Give me the binky so you can eat."

John didn't move, didn't blink. It was as if he was mesmerized with sucking on the binky.

Sherlock decided he was letting John get away with too much. He yanked out the binky, and watched as John's eyes filled up with tears and he began to cry.

"No," John exclaimed, reaching for the binky, snot running down his nose.

"Eat first, then you get the binky." Sherlock was determined to win this battle.

John shook his head, crying harder.

"No binky for John then." Sherlock put the binky in his pocket and watched as John lost it.

John was screaming and pulling at Sherlock's coat blindly, determined to get the binky. Sherlock was holding him at bay, but with each passing second, he doubted himself. Was it right to force John to eat?

John finally looked defeated as he sobbed violently into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock felt bad for him, but wanted him to eat at least a few bites.

"John, eat just a little bit, okay? Then you can get binky back." Sherlock whispered into John's ear, his heart breaking when he heard John's cries. How could a grown man's sobbing over a pacifier elicit such extreme emotions in him, Sherlock just didn't understand.

"Oh John!" Sherlock hugged the child tightly and took the pacifier up, holding it against John's lips. John took it into his mouth eagerly and began sucking, instantly calming down.  
"I'm sorry John," Sherlock whispered, rubbing John's back slowly, "I just want you to eat because I'm worried about you. I'm sorry for being mean."

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes still shining with tears. He took the binky out of his mouth and said "okay" before wetly kissing Sherlock's cheek. He immediately resumed sucking on his binky.

It was John's way of telling Sherlock that he was forgiven, he supposed. He ran a hand through his curly hair and decided to call someone for help. He would not be able to do this on his own.


End file.
